Every four years, the FIFA World Cup lands in a new country and with it comes an almost inevitable wave of controversy.
From human rights criticisms and logistical nightmares to spiraling costs and political backlash, hosting the world’s most-watched sporting event can feel like a poisoned chalice.
But is this so-called "curse" a genuine pattern, or is it a myth amplified by media scrutiny and social media hysteria?
History suggests it is a complex mixture of both. Hosting exposes real systemic flaws, yet the narrative of a supernatural curse often overshadows the nuance.
Early controversies
Controversy has been baked into the World Cup from its very first edition.
Uruguay’s inaugural tournament in 1930 was a logistical disaster waiting to happen.
Teams traveled by boat across the Atlantic and some European squads never made it because the journey was too expensive or complicated.
Egypt, for example, famously missed the boat that was supposed to pick them up and were left behind, unable to participate.
Only four European teams eventually competed, underscoring how infrastructure and travel hurdles have been a central challenge for hosts since day one.
Italy’s 1934 edition under Benito Mussolini turned football into fascist propaganda, with choreographed crowds and militarized security, drawing criticism for normalizing authoritarian rule.
By 1978, Argentina’s military junta used the World Cup to whitewash its Dirty War atrocities, detaining thousands of dissidents during the tournament.
These early controversies demonstrate that backlash has always been embedded in the event, often driven by politics rather than sport.
Modern era
The 21st century intensified the perception of a hosting curse.
Japan and South Korea’s co-hosted 2002 tournament faced skepticism over Asian football culture and complex logistics, with fans navigating a network of 16 flights to see all games.
Security laws in Japan, allowing prolonged detention without charge, also caused apprehension.
Even at that young age, I remember hearing my uncles in Zimbabwe – men who often struggled just to get to work some days – complain about the logistical nightmares of the tournament.
Their gripes were almost laughable given their own day-to-day hardships, yet they, like millions around the world, were swept up in the World Cup fever.
Despite these issues, attendance reached a record 2.7 million and football participation in Asia surged in the long term, making the "curse” appear more hype than harm.
Germany in 2006 faced a different challenge: the resurgence of far-right violence threatened the safety of black and Asian fans, yet the country delivered a smoothly run tournament attended by 3.3 million, generating nearly 7 billion euros ($8.2 billion) in economic benefits.
Even amid these incidents, the perception of a curse was contained by successful execution and post-event gains.
South Africa’s 2010 World Cup exemplified the modern "curse” narrative in full.
The event was unforgettable for the constant drone of vuvuzelas, which became both a symbol of fan passion and a source of global mockery.
Yet beneath the cacophony, serious issues simmered.
Multi-million-dollar stadiums were constructed, only to be underutilized or abandoned after the tournament, leaving municipalities to shoulder long-term maintenance costs.
Allegations of financial mismanagement and corruption in tenders surfaced, with contracts awarded under opaque processes and expenses ballooning far beyond initial budgets.
Infrastructure projects displaced tens of thousands of residents and nearby townships still lacked electricity, clean water and basic services.
Economically, the tournament created short-term jobs, but a $2 billion debt and underused stadiums left a lingering financial burden.
The 2010 World Cup exposed structural inequalities while putting South Africa in the international spotlight – sometimes for the wrong reasons – but it also elevated Africa’s profile in global football.
Brazil 2014 became the embodiment of the curse, with massive protests against $11 billion in spending while public services deteriorated, contributing to political instability that eventually led to President Dilma Rousseff’s impeachment.
Russia 2018 offered a different form of controversy: the annexation of Crimea, ongoing geopolitical tensions and migrant worker abuses created headlines, yet logistical execution remained flawless, with 3 million fans attending and $26 billion in infrastructure legacy achieved.
Qatar 2022 brought the narrative to its apex: $300 billion spent on air-conditioned stadiums, more than 6,500 migrant deaths during construction, alcohol restrictions and a shifted calendar disrupting leagues worldwide.
Yet commercially, the tournament generated $17 billion for FIFA and drew 1.4 million visitors.
FIFA’s current bidding model reveals the systemic roots of these so-called curses.
Wealthy nations, often with authoritarian governments, secure hosting rights despite human rights risks, while ethical and democratic bidders are routinely sidelined.
Amnesty International’s 2023 report found that 80% of recent hosts were classified as "high risk” on human rights metrics before their tournaments.
The result is a predictable chain of controversies: economic burdens, political unrest, worker abuses and media scrutiny follow almost every host.
Brewing 2026 controversy
The 2026 North American World Cup, set across the United States, Canada and Mexico, is already drawing scrutiny despite being pitched as a "safe” and well-organized tournament.
The expansion to 48 teams and 104 matches promises global spectacle, but logistical and political challenges are stirring early controversy.
Trump-imposed visa delays have reached unprecedented levels, with wait times exceeding 700 days for fans and players from some nations, including Iran and Nigeria.
Even with the introduction of the "FIFA PASS” fast-track program in late 2025, denials remain possible, raising questions about accessibility and fairness.
Iran’s football federation even boycotted the tournament draw in protest over visa snubs, highlighting diplomatic tensions that threaten to spill onto the pitch.
Ticket pricing has emerged as another flashpoint. While group-stage tickets start at a seemingly reasonable $60, prices for high-demand matches have skyrocketed, with openers at MetLife Stadium reaching upwards of $2,000 and premium seats climbing past $6,000.
Resale fees of up to 15% have further inflamed fans, with supporter groups calling it a "monumental betrayal,” particularly when compared to Qatar 2022, where tickets averaged just $55.
Critics argue that such pricing risks alienating the very fanbase that makes the World Cup a global spectacle, reinforcing perceptions of elitism and exclusion.
Security and political disputes add another layer of tension. U.S. domestic politics have already clashed with FIFA plans: proposals to relocate matches from liberal-leaning cities like Seattle surfaced, citing ideological differences and security fears.
Rising incidents of racially motivated attacks across parts of the United States have intensified concerns for visiting fans, especially those from marginalized communities, raising questions about whether safety can be guaranteed for all spectators.
Even the economic projections are under scrutiny.
The tournament is expected to generate a $30.5 billion impact, but the influx of 1.24 million foreign visitors – only half of FIFA’s original estimate – may strain infrastructure, accommodation and transportation systems in host cities.
Critics also warn that the environmental footprint of the expanded tournament could rival previous editions, with cross-border travel between three countries magnifying carbon emissions despite FIFA’s promises of sustainability initiatives.
These controversies illustrate that even a well-resourced, democratic host trio is not immune to the pressures of hosting the modern World Cup.
Visa disputes, ticket pricing, security concerns and environmental challenges are all magnified in an era of hyper-connected fans, social media outrage and 24/7 global coverage.
2030 and 2034 under threat
Beyond 2026, the 2030 tournament spanning Spain, Portugal, Morocco and South American openers raises environmental and human rights challenges, while Saudi Arabia’s 2034 edition already draws criticism for alleged sportswashing, migrant exploitation and severe restrictions on free expression, alcohol and extreme climate conditions.
Curse or hype?
Yet, the idea of a curse is partially overstated.
Not every host implodes: the United States in 1994 turned initial apathy into a booming Major League Soccer, now valued at over $1 billion with 29 teams, while Germany’s 2006 tournament generated cultural influence alongside economic gain.
Social media and hyper-connected news cycles amplify grievances, turning predictable consequences of hosting into mythical curses.
Football itself – driven by passion, inequality and global politics – remains unchanged, producing both spectacular moments and inevitable scandals.
The World Cup hosting "curse” is less a supernatural phenomenon than the recurring fallout of FIFA’s profit-driven model.
Until reforms are implemented, including binding human rights standards, environmental accountability and sustainable infrastructure requirements, every host will face scrutiny.
The curse is not broken; it is football’s eternal tension between spectacle and consequence, where the beautiful game continues to unite millions even as it exposes the world’s divisions.