2026 World Cup faces record costs, political tensions and climate concerns

Gianni Infantino, the president of world football's governing body, has called this summer's World Cup across the United States, Mexico, and Canada "simply the greatest event that humanity, that mankind, has ever seen." It is a characteristically bold claim from a man who rarely undersells his sport's marquee tournament. But away from the pitch, away from the players and the goals and the spectacle that draws billions of viewers, this World Cup is shaping up to be something else entirely: a collision of record-breaking costs, geopolitical friction, environmental reckoning, and security complexity that may make it the most contentious tournament in the sport's history.

The numbers alone tell part of the story. When organizers first pitched the tournament eight years ago, they promised final tickets would cost no more than $1,550. When sales opened in December, the most expensive seats were listed at $8,680—more than five times the original estimate. Fifa introduced dynamic pricing, adjusting costs based on demand and timing, and took a 30% cut from every ticket resold on its official platform. The strategy sparked outrage from supporters' groups, who called it a "monumental betrayal." Investigators in New York and New Jersey have since launched formal inquiries into whether Fifa artificially inflated prices and misled fans. Meanwhile, train tickets from central New York to the stadium in New Jersey where the final will be held were initially marked up from $12.90 to $150 before being reduced to $98. Hotel bookings across host cities are running well below expectations. A recent poll found that a majority of Americans believe the tournament is simply too expensive to attend. Between 12,000 and 15,000 England supporters are expected at each of their three group matches—a figure that one supporters' group leader described as "a little bit disappointing given the excitement that was building up."

But the financial barriers are only one layer of a much more complex problem. For the first time in World Cup history, the host country is at war with a participating nation. The United States and Iran have been engaged in military conflict since February, when American and Israeli forces attacked Iranian targets, prompting Iranian retaliation. A ceasefire took effect in April, but strikes between the two sides have continued. Iran's national team, which had initially based itself in Arizona, was forced to relocate to Mexico. President Trump at one point suggested it was not "appropriate" for Iran to participate "for their own life and safety," and his special envoy even floated the idea of replacing them with Italy, a four-time champion that failed to qualify. Iran has now accused the United States of denying visas to team executives and backroom staff, and claims players were told they must enter and leave the country on the same day of their group matches. With Fifa reportedly set to ban the pre-revolutionary Iranian flag from tournament venues, Iran's matches—particularly the first two, which will be played in Los Angeles, home to a large Persian community—are expected to be politically charged.

The immigration picture extends far beyond Iran. Under Trump's current administration, fans from at least 12 nations are facing full or partial travel bans, tighter restrictions, or high visa rejection rates. Four countries—Iran, Haiti, Senegal, and Ivory Coast—have been hit particularly hard. Only last month did visitors from Algeria, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Cape Verde, and Tunisia receive exemptions from a requirement to deposit up to $15,000 before obtaining a visa. Journalists have complained about widespread visa denials. Omar Artan, who was set to become the first Somalian referee at a World Cup final, was dropped from the official list after being denied entry to the United States; no reason was provided by immigration authorities. "This is a tournament where players, fans, and officials are not walking in free of risk, if they can get in at all," according to Craig Foster, a former Australian national team captain and human rights campaigner. "For a sport that has trumpeted its commitment to its own human rights policy for a decade now, that is nothing short of disgraceful."

Security concerns loom large. The Department of Homeland Security, which oversees much of the tournament's security apparatus, recently reopened after a partial shutdown that had raised alarm among White House officials. The agency's Immigration and Customs Enforcement division, which will be part of the overall security operation, has drawn particular scrutiny. Earlier this year, ICE agents shot and killed two American citizens during an immigration crackdown in Minneapolis. Human Rights Watch has warned that the tournament risks becoming a "bonanza of sportswashing," while Amnesty International has cautioned that it could become "a stage for repression," highlighting concerns about "abusive, discriminatory and deadly immigration enforcement and mass detention." Andrew Giuliani, head of the White House World Cup Task Force, acknowledged the scale of the challenge, telling ESPN that local law enforcement faces "an unbelievable problem set" over the 40-day tournament and that security planners had been "planning with one hand tied behind our back" during the shutdown.

The environmental toll adds another dimension to the controversy. Fifa has pledged to cut carbon emissions by 50% by 2030 and reach net-zero by 2040. Using existing stadiums helps with that goal, but expanding the tournament to 48 teams and 104 matches does not. Aviation accounts for 80 to 90 percent of the tournament's carbon footprint, and environmentalists argue this will be "the most climate-damaging" World Cup in history, generating more than nine million tonnes of carbon dioxide equivalent—nearly double the average for the previous four tournaments. The original bid book had estimated 3.6 million tonnes, with promises to "establish new standards for environmental sustainability in sport." A group of leading scientists recently warned Fifa that its heat safety measures were "inadequate" and could put players at serious risk. With temperatures at 14 of the 16 host venues expected to exceed dangerous levels, concerns about player and fan health are mounting. When Fifa initially banned reusable water bottles from venues, citing safety concerns, the backlash was swift and fierce. After major outcry from supporters' groups and politicians, the organization relented, allowing sealed, disposable bottles.

Mexico City, where the tournament opens Thursday, offers a microcosm of these tensions. The Estadio Azteca will make history as the first venue to host the opening match of three different World Cups. Yet the city has seen World Cup statues toppled by protesters, and teachers are threatening to disrupt matches unless their demands for higher wages are met. In Tijuana, the presence of Iran's squad is a direct consequence of geopolitical conflict. Across the border in the United States, where roughly 75 percent of matches will take place, ticket prices and security concerns have dampened enthusiasm.

Fifa stands to make a record $9 billion from the tournament this year alone, with plans to redistribute $2.7 billion to national football associations over the next four years—a distribution that will help Infantino's bid for a third re-election next year. The expanded tournament represents an unprecedented commercial opportunity in the world's most commercialized sports market. Yet the coming weeks will test whether the sport and its followers are willing to accept the costs—financial, political, environmental, and human—that this expansion has unleashed. The stage is set for football's biggest stars to shine. But it could also reveal just how much inflation and complexity the game, and those who love it, can bear.