WWhen the first tickets for the 2026 World Cup went on sale last week, millions of fans queued online only to find out what Gianni Infantino's assurance that “the world will be glad” actually meant. The cheapest seat at face value for next summer's finals, somewhere in New Jersey's godless 82,500-seat MetLife Stadium, where the players are pushovers and the football is just a rumor, costs $2,030 (without oxygen tank). Most upper deck seats range from $2,790 to $4,210, according to customers. who finally looked at the prices it was carefully guarded. highly advertised $60 tickets group stage games, held up by FIFA as proof of accessibility, exist only as comically tiny green blobs on the edges of digital seat maps, little more than mirages of inclusivity.
FIFA kept the price secret until the sale, replacing the usual published price table with a digital lottery that decided who would even get the chance to buy. Millions of people spent hours staring at the queue screen as algorithms determined their place in line. By the time access finally opened up for most, the lower-priced sections had already disappeared, many of which had apparently been gobbled up by bots and bulk buyers (and that's before FIFA quietly raised prices for at least nine matches). in just one day of sales). The whole process felt less like a ticket release and more like a psychological operation designed to determine how much disappointment and shortage the public would tolerate.
This, FIFA insists, is merely an adaptation to “market norms” in the United States, where most matches will be played as if fanning was a cultural practice to be respected, just like Ban beer at World Cup in Qatar. In a sense, they are at their best. In the absence of a national religion, profiteering and exploitation have long become articles of faith in America. In fact, what's now taking shape is less a global football festival and more a fintech laboratory for everything that has made modern entertainment so tedious. The governing body has combined all the irritants of modern consumer life—dynamic pricing, algorithmic lotteries, endless logins, and even the remnants of a failed crypto boom—into a single, soul-crushing experience designed to commodify access itself. It's a World Cup redesigned for the Ticketmaster-Live Nation monopoly era, where fan excitement meets the calculations of hedge fund speculation.
The story began during the NFT craze of 2022, when FIFA launched Fifa+ Collect, promising fans “affordable ownership” of digital football moments – Pele lifting the trophy in 1970, Maradona's solo run in 1986, Kylian Mbappe's goal in the 2018 final – each sold as a collectible on the blockchain. When the market crashed (which was a surprise), FIFA stirred up its own nachos by quietly rebranding the tokens as ticketing capabilities. A new scheme marketed under a frighteningly corporate name Right to buy (RTB), offers backers the opportunity to purchase NFTs that give them permission one day purchase a valid match ticket. A Right to the final The token is worth up to $999 and can only be redeemed if the buyer's chosen team reaches the finals. Otherwise it will become a useless JPEG. FIFA has figured out how to monetize the anticipation itself – a system that sells not tickets, but Fomo.
That illusion was finally shattered this week when Fifa Collect administrators reported that the vast majority of eligible purchasers will only have the right seats in categories 1 and 2 are the most expensive at the initial stage of FIFA at prices far beyond the reach of the average player. The news sparked an open revolt among the NFT community, with Discord threads filled with complaints about being “scammed” and a sudden rush to resell tokens as their market value collapsed.
When real tickets finally appeared, the scale of the escalation became clear. Seats in the Category 1 semi-finals are close to $3,000; quarterfinals almost $1,700. FIFA's new dynamic pricing model means these figures can and will certainly rise significantly higher. Techniques borrowed from airlines and Silicon Valley ticketing platforms now drive the world's biggest sporting event, creating a byzantine and hierarchical market divided into endless layers of privilege.
At past World Cups, resale prices were capped at face value. In 2026, FIFA lifted this restriction and moved to the secondary market itself. Tickets for its official resale platform have already appeared for tens of thousands of dollars, including a ticket for the final for $2,030 that was re-listed the next day for $25,000. FIFA is doing a double whammy by charging the seller a 15% commission And another 15% from the buyer, who receives $300 for every $1,000 sold. Officials say this will discourage scalpers from using third-party sites such as StubHub. In practice, it legitimizes them, as if the easiest way to defeat advertisers is to simply accept them.
By the time a ticket is finally scanned at the turnstile on match day, it may have already been bought, flipped and resold three or four times, with each transaction contributing another share to FIFA's coffers. This is not a ticket system, but a financial instrument, and suddenly this goal is $3.017 billion income from tickets and hospitality does not seem so quixotic.
Supporter groups reacted with predictable disbelief and outrage. Thomas Concannon of the England Supporters' Embassy called the prices “astounding”, noting that escorting a team through the tournament on the cheapest tickets would cost more than twice as much as an equivalent trip to Qatar. Add to this restrictions on transatlantic travel, accommodation and visas, as well as the so-called “most inclusive program”. World Cup Ronan Evane of Fans Europe called it “the privatization of what was once a tournament open to all”, arguing that FIFA is building “a World Cup for the Western middle class and the lucky few who can come to the US.”
In Mexico, where resale laws have some teeth, FIFA bowed to government pressure and capped prices at face value on a localized ticket exchange platform. Throughout the late stage, free market shenanigans continue unchecked. The logic is simple: scarcity brings profit, and even disappointment can be monetized. FIFA's defense draws heavily on American precedent. Concert promoters and major leagues have been using dynamic pricing for years, and resale sites regularly charge similar fees. But referring to “market norms” misses the point. The global football ritual is not meant to imitate the Super Bowl or the Eras Tour by normalizing the offensive consumer practices that Americans came to terms with years ago. It had to belong to everyone: traveling fans, families, the people who turn neutral stadiums into carnivals of color and noise.
The introduction of 2026 usheres in a new frontier of sports capitalism: the monetization of emotions. FIFA has created an ecosystem in which every emotion – excitement, anxiety, devotion – becomes a source of income. Fear of missing out? There is a token for this. Late stage panic? Dynamic pricing will take this into account. Regret? The resale site will take up another 30%. Buying a ticket is no longer an act of fanaticism but speculation, a bet placed on both the fate of your team and your own disposable income.
Parallels with the growing economy of the live music industry amazing. Concerts, the explosive growth of VIP packages and velvet prices have turned performances into private spectacles, and the public into clientele. The same transformation is taking place in football. Stadiums once defined by chaos and community are being reimagined as efficient, climate-controlled shopping malls: perfect views, perfect sound, and prices that erase the very imperfections that made the experience human. When casual fans are thrown out of the game, what is left is a sport stripped of its benefits and reduced to entertainment.
FIFA says every dollar raised from ticket sales goes back into the game, FIFA stressed. in a recent letter to the Guardianas if this well-worn talking point was a moral shield. However, a recalibrated worldview is coming back into play: football, like every other aspect of modern life, can be measured, segmented and commodified. In this process, the world's most democratic sport becomes an exercise in isolation, where ownership is determined by AI and the balance sheet.
Infantino continues to say that 2026 will be “the biggest, best and most inclusive World Cup ever.” On the first point he will probably be right, and on the second he may be right, but the World Cup, valued as a luxury brand, is destined to be significantly inferior to the third. The dream football that once offered shared interest and shared joy has been bought, repackaged and sold back at a premium. When access itself becomes an asset class, the world's game no longer belongs to the world.
