The 2026 FIFA World Cup, to be held across the United States, Canada, and Mexico from 11 June to 19 July, will be the largest and most costly tournament in the competition's century-long history. Forty-eight teams will compete across sixteen venues spread over three countries and five time zones. For the organisers and FIFA's commercial partners, the expansion represents an unprecedented revenue opportunity. For ordinary supporters — the ones who paint their faces and sing until they lose their voices — it represents something closer to a financial stress test.

The numbers are blunt. According to a survey conducted by DW News across twelve countries, the average fan attending three group-stage matches expects to spend between $8,000 and $15,000 on travel, accommodation, tickets, and food. In Qatar, which FIFA marketed as a "compact" World Cup where every stadium was within a ninety-minute drive, comparable costs ran between $4,000 and $7,000. The difference is partly geographical — the United States is vast, and a supporter whose team plays in Miami, Seattle, and Dallas will log more air miles between matches than many fans travel to reach the tournament itself — and partly inflationary.

Hotel prices in host cities have already spiked. In Dallas, where AT&T Stadium will host the final, average nightly rates for July have risen 340 per cent above their 2025 baseline, according to data from the travel analytics firm STR. New York, Los Angeles, and Miami show similar patterns. The surge has pushed many supporters toward Airbnb and private rentals, though local regulations in several host cities limit short-term lets, creating a secondary accommodation crunch.

Then there is the matter of visas. The United States operates one of the most restrictive visitor visa regimes among major sporting nations, and the State Department has given no indication that it intends to implement a blanket visa waiver for World Cup ticketholders — a courtesy extended by every host nation since South Africa in 2010. For supporters from Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, and Cameroon — countries with passionate football cultures and strong qualifying prospects — the visa application process involves fees of $185, in-person interviews at US consulates that may be hundreds of kilometres from their homes, and rejection rates that, according to State Department data, exceed 40 per cent for several African nations.

"It's a World Cup that doesn't want the world," said Olumide Akinsanya, a Lagos-based football journalist who covers African qualifying. "FIFA will sell the broadcasting rights to every country on earth and then make it nearly impossible for half those countries' fans to attend."

The political dimension is equally uncomfortable. President Trump's administration has not softened its immigration enforcement posture for the tournament, and several supporter groups have raised concerns about the treatment fans might receive at US borders. Mexican fans, who would ordinarily cross overland to attend matches in Dallas or Houston, face the additional indignity of the border wall and increasingly hostile rhetoric from Washington.

Security is a related worry. The United States has experienced multiple mass shooting events at large public gatherings in recent years, and while FIFA has mandated extensive security perimeters around all venues, several European supporter organisations have issued guidance to their members about American firearms culture. The German Football Association's official World Cup guide, leaked in draft form last month, included a section titled "Understanding American Gun Laws" — a sentence that tells its own story.

Against this backdrop, Mexican and Canadian venues have become unexpectedly attractive. Guadalajara, Monterrey, and Mexico City offer fans familiar football culture, lower costs, and easier visa access. Toronto and Vancouver provide the North American experience without the geopolitical baggage. There is a real possibility that the atmosphere inside stadiums will differ dramatically depending on which side of which border the match is played.

FIFA, for its part, has addressed these concerns with the cheerful opacity that is the organisation's signature. President Gianni Infantino declared at a press conference in Zurich last month that the 2026 tournament would be "the most inclusive World Cup in history," citing the expanded forty-eight-team format as evidence. He did not address visa access, accommodation costs, or gun violence.

The irony is that the expanded format — Infantino's signature achievement — is itself a driver of cost. More teams mean more matches, spread across more cities, over a longer duration. A supporter following a team through the group stage and into the knockout rounds could attend matches in three different cities across six weeks. In Qatar, the same journey required one hotel room and a metro pass.

There are, of course, fans who will find a way regardless. Mohammed in Manchester will eat cheap and sleep four to a room. Supporters from São Paulo and Buenos Aires will drive across the Mexican border. Japanese and South Korean fan groups, legendarily well-organised, have been running savings clubs since 2024. The World Cup has always been, among other things, an exercise in devotion — and devotion, by definition, is irrational.

But there is something troubling about a tournament that prices out the very communities that give football its meaning. The World Cup is not the Monaco Grand Prix. Its power comes from universality — from the knowledge that a bus driver in Accra and a banker in Zurich are watching the same match with the same intensity. When the cost of attendance becomes a filter, the thing being filtered is not wealth. It is belonging.