Does the world suddenly become one when the World Cup arrives – at least in front of the screen? In Bangladesh, a fan may be hunting for food-delivery discounts at three in the morning, spending the day in jerseys, flags, and fierce arguments, and supporting Brazil, Argentina, Portugal, or France with the seriousness of a foreign-policy doctrine. Yet at that very hour, bombs may be falling somewhere, borders may be closing elsewhere, and visas may be stuck in bureaucratic limbo. FIFA calls it the most inclusive World Cup. Reality smiles and asks: inclusive for whom?
That question sits at the heart of the 2026 FIFA World Cup. While the ball rolls across the pitch, war, capital, state power, corporate profit and a vast political fair disguised as entertainment roll in its shadow. Read through the lens of sports capitalism and the political economy of global mega-events, the World Cup is not only about goals. Goals are also scored in public emotion, market calculations and state image management.
For the first time, three countries are jointly staging the tournament. For the first time, 48 teams are taking part. The number of matches has increased to 104. FIFA describes the event as the biggest and most inclusive World Cup in history. The phrase sounds beautiful. But beautiful phrases often hide difficult questions. Is inclusion meant only for the teams that play? Or does it also include supporters kept outside by borders, visas, ticket prices, war and state suspicion? The world is passing through a deeply contradictory moment. On one side stands a global festival; on the other, wars, aggression, military tension, displacement and security paranoia. We are told that football unites people. But passports, sanctions, immigration controls and geopolitical suspicion continue to divide them. At a time when global politics speaks the language of conflict and domination, the language of inclusion on the entertainment stage deserves scrutiny.
Football is often described as the world’s most popular game. For many, it belongs to the working class, the lower-middle class, the neighbourhood field and ordinary emotion. But the World Cup has never been just football. It is entertainment, a commodity, diplomacy, national identity, corporate marketing, state branding, and global political communication at once. The ball moves on the field, but around it move states, capital, media, security systems, advertising and the emotions of spectators. To understand the World Cup only through goals, passes, and trophies is to read only half the story.
From the perspective of political communication, the World Cup is a massive framing machine. Robert Entman’s idea of framing – making some parts of reality visible while pushing others into the background – fits the tournament well. Opening ceremonies, flags, music, fireworks and camera language foreground unity, celebration, and the people’s game. At the same time, war, border policy, immigration control, labour, cost, commercial exploitation and inequality move behind the curtain. The spectator is told: this is football. In reality, it is also a political message: the host state is safe, modern, powerful and capable of welcoming the world.
History shows that the World Cup has never stood outside politics. The 1934 World Cup in Italy helped turn Mussolini’s fascist regime into a spectacle of legitimacy and power. The 1978 World Cup in Argentina took place under the shadow of a military junta and grave human rights violations. The 2018 World Cup in Russia and the 2022 World Cup in Qatar also showed how football can function as soft power, image management and, at times, sportswashing. The game then ceases to be merely a game; it becomes a mirror carefully arranged by the state.
The political contradiction of the 2026 World Cup is especially visible around Iran. On the one hand, Iran is a recognised participating team. On the other hand, military and diplomatic tensions with the United States, visa complications and questions over supporters’ access weaken FIFA’s claim of inclusivity. Players may take the field, but if many of their supporters cannot enter the stadium because of visas, sanctions or ticket-allocation barriers, the language of universality sounds hollow. Giving a team space on the pitch and giving its people access to the festival are not the same thing.
Yet dismissing football would be unfair. The beauty of the game is real. Brazil’s rhythm, Argentina’s emotion, Africa’s rise, Asia’s aspiration and the dreams of small nations genuinely move people. A family staying awake through the night, a child wearing a first jersey, friends arguing over a match – these are not fake. The problem is not football’s joy. The problem is the ownership of that joy. Who profits from it? Who turns emotion into a commodity? In whose hands does World Cup excitement become revenue?
In the capitalist economy of sport, the spectator is not merely a spectator; the spectator is also a market. Their eyes are products for advertisers. Their emotions are assets for brands. Their nationalism drives jersey sales. Their memories become data for digital content. FIFA’s tickets, broadcasting rights, sponsorships, hospitality packages, jerseys, streaming platforms and social media clips together form a vast structure of sports capitalism. The game is the core content, but around it grows a multi-layered system of capital accumulation. The debate over ticket prices makes this capitalist character clearer. Historically, football has been the game of working people. But dynamic pricing, corporate hospitality, resale markets and tickets costing thousands of dollars are slowly turning football into a global premium event. A sport that once stood on neighbourhood grounds, factory workers, immigrant communities and ordinary emotion is now being transformed into an experience product for the wealthy.
So, when FIFA speaks of inclusion, we must ask whether this is inclusion with equal dignity, or a polished arrangement in which the men’s World Cup becomes ‘the world’ while the women’s World Cup is placed on a separate shelf. Scholars such as Carrick and Schwab have shown that despite commitments against gender discrimination, inequality in women’s football – in pay, prize money and institutional status – has persisted. The name ‘World Cup’ is therefore political. When men play, it is the world. When women play, it is a women’s world.
The political economy of the World Cup teaches an uncomfortable truth: entertainment is never entirely innocent. What we call a game can also serve state power, corporate profit, media agenda-setting and public opinion management. The host state presents itself on the global stage. FIFA expands its commercial empire.
Corporations turn emotion into products. Media produces celebration even amid war and crisis. The spectator watches the match, but the spectator is also used – as fuel for ratings, clicks, data, advertising and markets.
The World Cup must therefore be read not only as entertainment, but also as a language of power. In the modern world, the ball does not roll only across the field. It rolls through diplomacy, capital markets, media screens and human emotion. The World Cup gives us joy – there is no doubt about that. But standing in that light of joy, we must still ask: whose festival is this, whose market is this, and who is still standing outside this stage called ‘the world’?
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author
The writer is an Associate Professor, Department of Communication and Journalism, University of Chittagong. E-mail: [email protected]
